


Bring Your Alibis

by robocryptid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (although that's not a model relationship either), (not between McHan), Age Difference, Alcohol, Angst, Antagonism, Betrayal, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Explicit Sexual Content, Hallucinations, Haunting, Horror, Hotels, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Lies, M/M, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, References to self-harm, Supernatural Elements, Time Shenanigans, Unhealthy Relationships, ask to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26879734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: The sun’s been down an hour by the time Jesse pulls into the hotel drive. It’s a gleaming monstrosity, both opulent and at least a decade out of fashion, and it fits poorly out here in the forest. He expected something like a dolled up hunting lodge, and what he gets is this slick building better suited to Los Angeles or New York City.God knows it doesn’t seem like Reyes’ scene, but if Ogundimu is really the one footing the bill, maybe he gets to make the travel arrangements too. In any case, Jesse can feel himself gaining ground on his target, drawing closer with each stop he makes. Reyes is moving slowly, impeded by his search for something, while Jesse only has to look forhim.The concierge is cagey about whether Reyes checked in — “Our guests deserve their privacy, Mr. McCree,” she says coolly — but it’s too late to get back on the road. Jesse lets his exhaustion do the talking.He can pick up the trail again tomorrow. It’s only one night.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 33
Kudos: 110
Collections: Danger & Dread: A McHanzo Horror Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Severeni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severeni/gifts).



> This fic was originally intended for the Danger & Dread McHanzo horror zine, but alas, 2020 Happened. Now I'm sharing it in installments here! I was partnered with [Severeni](https://twitter.com/severenitm), who def gave me some cool ideas. Other inspiration for this fic comes from "Hotel California" and "House of the Rising Sun," _American Horror Story: Hotel,_ _The Shining,_ _Lucifer,_ my general love of horror and horror-adjacent movies, and the weird shit I imagine in the dark when I can't sleep. 
> 
> For those concerned, the "references to self-harm" tag is explicitly in this psych horror context, if that matters (it does for me and for a freind who read this, so I thought I would clarify). Please mind the other tags as well. If there is anything I've left untagged, please don't hesitate to ask me to add it! 
> 
> Finally, there's a [playlist for this fic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1iWiALvaYmgHcqEFY5ZaUO?si=5W9f12gGTby_oExpnosdEw) if you're into that kind of thing.

The sun’s been down an hour by the time Jesse pulls into the hotel drive. It’s a gleaming monstrosity, both opulent and at least a decade out of fashion, and it fits poorly out here in the forest. He expected something like a dolled up hunting lodge, and what he gets is this slick building better suited to Los Angeles or New York City. 

God knows it doesn’t seem like Reyes’ scene, but if Ogundimu is really the one footing the bill, maybe he gets to make the travel arrangements too. In any case, Jesse can feel himself gaining ground on his target, drawing closer with each stop he makes. Reyes is moving slowly, impeded by his search for something, while Jesse only has to look for _him._

The concierge is cagey about whether Reyes checked in — “Our guests deserve their privacy, Mr. McCree,” she says coolly — but it’s too late to get back on the road. Jesse knows he’s swaying on his feet. He lets his exhaustion do the talking. She hands him the key to room 237 and a brochure that lists all the hotel amenities. There’s a poker game tonight that tempts him, but more than anything, he wants a shower and a good night’s sleep.

The elevator opens in the middle of the floor, sandwiched between two long hallways. He counts his way toward his room, down near the end of the hall. He passes a man outside the door next to his. 

“Damn it,” the stranger mutters, patting down the pockets of his slacks and vest. Jesse doesn’t say anything, but the man looks at him as if he did. “Apologies for my outburst. It seems I have misplaced my keycard.”

He’s got to be a decade younger and a head shorter than Jesse, but he’s just as broad, with a trim waist accentuated by the cut of his vest. His thick black hair is sleek with some kind of product, but a stubborn lock falls into his face. Intentional or not, it’s a look that works for him. Jesse notes it all in passing, but when their eyes meet, he stops in his tracks, temporarily paralyzed by the electric current that thrums between them. 

The man’s eyes flick down and back up his body so quickly that it almost passes for a blink. It’s the twitch of his lips that gives him away. Suddenly Jesse’s not so tired anymore. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve never been put off by a dirty mouth.”

The stranger’s laugh sounds like he’s surprised by his own amusement. It’s a response Jesse’s used to. “Are you just arriving?” He gestures toward Jesse’s duffel, his jacket swaying where it’s folded over one arm.

“I am. Just stayin’ the night, then I’m off.”

“So quickly? Perhaps my lost keycard is a blessing in disguise. We might never have crossed paths.” He’s smiling more openly now. Jesse knows an invitation when he sees one. It’s as good as a sure thing, yet he hesitates. 

The stranger looks like he was built with Jesse’s tastes in mind, with just enough deviation from the mold to keep it interesting. Dark hair, dark eyes, shoulders and biceps straining the pressed sleeves of his white button-down, a tattoo peeking out along his wrist. Sharp cheekbones and well-defined lips, the kind that pout like they’re upset you’re not kissing them. Yet Jesse’s gut says the man is too eager, too forward, too nosy — he isn’t sure what, but something is off. 

The stranger’s still watching him, head tilted, too confident for coy but somewhere in that zone. “Once I get a new keycard, I was thinking of having a nightcap. Would you care to join me?”

It’s as plain as it’s likely to get. Jesse can already feel the regret as he says, “I’d love to, but I’m beat. Gotta get an early start tomorrow.”

He turns away to unlock his door, but not before he catches the look of outright shock on the man’s face. He’s probably not used to being turned down, and with good reason. “A pity,” he says when he recovers. “I was looking forward to treating you to my dirty mouth.” 

It takes an unreasonable amount of willpower to bid him goodnight and to enter his room alone. Faintly, he hears the sound of another door opening and closing. 

There are antlers on the wall here. Maybe it’s a nod to the locale, to the hunting lodge Jesse thought it was going to be. They stick out strangely amid the shining gray satin of the duvet and curtains, and there are too many pairs to be a simple statement piece. Far be it from him to complain about some rustic flair, but they feel as out of place here as he does.

He drops his duffel in the oversized armchair and only unpacks what he needs right away. The pipes creak and rattle when he turns on the water, and it takes forever to warm up, but eventually he’s got his first hot shower in nearly forty-eight hours. It feels damn good.

It’s not long before his thoughts wander back to his neighbor. He still can’t figure what put him off, because the longer he thinks about it, the more he regrets it. He thinks about the curve of the stranger’s lips, and his fingers brush through coarse hair on their way to his half-hard cock. It’s nowhere near as good as what he bets that pretty mouth can do, but it’ll have to be enough. His cock swells in his hand, and he imagines the pressure around it is the clutch of a tight ass. Imagines his other hand running over hard muscle and fisting into thick black hair. 

He’s halfway to getting off when the water grows cold all at once. Goosebumps break out all over, and the teeth he gritted in pleasure are now chattering if he doesn’t clench his jaw hard enough. 

He curses and shuts the water off before it can get any worse, and he fumbles for a towel, drying off as quickly as he can in an effort to warm back up. Plumbing must be at least as old as the building looks, or maybe he was just in there way too long. Either way, he huddles in the quickly dissipating steam of the bathroom, glaring at his reflection.

The face that stares back is as road-weary as he feels. There are shadows under his eyes, and under the stubble his cheekbones are more prominent than they were a month ago. His wet hair hangs in his eyes; it needs a trim too. He squints at himself and runs a hand through his beard. Even with the mess, he figures he’s doing alright if a man that hot made a pass at him. Still, it’s been too long since he cut his hair.

He’s been on the road too long altogether. It’s been too long since he had a proper shave, too long without a reliable shower, too long since the last good night’s sleep. Too long with only his hand for company. There’s someone right next door who seems more than happy to help him out with that last one.

Before he can overthink it, he’s pulled on enough clothing that he doesn’t scandalize anybody in the hallway and he’s knocking on the stranger’s door. The man answers wearing nothing but a robe, his black underwear, and a knowing smirk. 

“You lied about the keycard,” Jesse says.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t find another excuse to talk to you.”

That feels like a lie too, but the man’s sly smile is a magnet pulling Jesse across the threshold. Jesse looks him over, taking in the broad shoulders and flat stomach and pecs he wants to sink his teeth into, and he can’t think of a good enough reason to turn away again. “The offer still stand?” he asks hoarsely. With a quiet laugh, the stranger nods, then he takes a step back and tips his head up as if to say _come and get it._ The sound of the door shutting barely registers as the world narrows to nothing more than Jesse and a gorgeous stranger. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Hanzo.” Jesse imagines he can feel the pulse pounding in the too-hot fingertips that brush his collar, imagines a live wire between them. “What do you want?”

Jesse can barely breathe, much less answer a question like that. He wonders if Hanzo’s a prostitute; it would explain the caginess and the cockiness both, the certainty in his stance and the hands on Jesse’s body. He’s not sure he cares. He’s got the money, if it comes to that.

It’s the last real coherent thought he has before his ass hits the mattress and Hanzo drops to his knees. There’s fire in Jesse’s head and in his veins, and the mouth around his cock feels fucking molten. Hanzo’s hair is thick between his fingers, tacky with the product slicking it back.

His mouth is ruthless, efficient. Jesse’s thighs twitch and he struggles not to buck his hips, but there’s no escaping the swirling heat taking up all the space in his body. It happens so fast, and Hanzo pulls back without a drop spilled, his wet, reddened lips parted for breathing that’s barely heavier than before.

“Shit,” Jesse mutters. He tries to reach out, but Hanzo’s up on his feet already, sporting an impressive hard-on. 

He pours himself a drink while Jesse sits there panting. “Would you like one?” he asks.

Jesse’s so tired again. He can feel it in his bones, like there’s a weight holding him on the bed. But the rest of the room is cold without Hanzo, and he can still feel the earlier fire, banked but not yet out. “Rather have you.”

Hanzo smirks and it doesn’t reach his eyes. He pours a second glass. Jesse never asked for it, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not going to turn down what promises to be a fine glass of whiskey hand delivered by a beautiful, mostly naked man. 

“Drink up,” Hanzo says, and his voice scrapes pleasantly down Jesse’s spine, velvet rubbed the wrong direction. Hanzo tips his back, swigs it all in one go like he’s taking a cheap shot, like this shit’s not from some hundred dollar bottle. Jesse’s not quite that eager about it, but he does take a healthy sip of his own, and he doesn’t complain when Hanzo hooks a finger under the glass to urge him to finish it. 

Hanzo shows too many teeth when he smiles, sharp edged like he’s got a cruel joke only he understands. Jesse doesn’t care. It’s getting cold again and Hanzo is the only warm thing in this room. The fire under his skin comes back when Hanzo moves closer, flares hot at the sight of his eyes, threatens to burn him alive when those fingers touch him again. 

“What do you want?” Hanzo asks again, and Jesse still can’t answer with words, can only pull him closer, closer, draw him in and try to bury himself inside him.

He keeps thinking he’s too tired, that he’ll try to sleep any minute, but Hanzo’s there, and he’s warm, and he lets Jesse paw at him, press fingertips all over his skin, tug his underwear down just enough that Jesse can work his fingers inside Hanzo’s clutching, clasping body. 

There’s fire everywhere Hanzo’s mouth touches, and as hot as he feels around Jesse’s fingers, he’s hotter riding his cock, taking in every inch of him. His eyes are black in the lamplight, glittering dark pools Jesse could drown in. It’s cold at his back when he turns them over, sharp and biting in contrast to Hanzo’s perfect heat. 

It sounds like a performance at first, but Jesse fucks some sincerity out of him too, grabs harshly onto thighs and hips to shape Hanzo however he needs in order to wring increasingly desperate sounds from his mouth. The twitch in his fingers as his nails scrape over Jesse’s shoulders, the gape of his kiss-swollen lips when Jesse edges in that little bit deeper, the almost startled sound he makes before he throws his head back, these are all minor victories. Hanzo’s eyes lose focus and the lids flutter, then Hanzo squeezes around him, almost convulsive, and Jesse hasn’t even touched his cock. Hanzo’s orgasm feels like a triumph, and Jesse’s is barely an afterthought.

This time when they’re done, Hanzo doesn’t pull so far away. “You allowed to smoke in here?” Jesse asks even as he lets Hanzo light his cigarette for him.

“Nobody has stopped me.”

Jesse snorts and they smoke in peace until another chill comes along and he has to bury himself beneath the duvet. Hanzo doesn’t seem to notice, sitting naked with sweat drying on his gleaming skin.

“You’re not cold?”

Hanzo looks sideways at him. It’s hard to say if he’s frowning or if that’s just what his mouth does. “No.”

Jesse chalks it up to too much time on the road, the cold shower, the recent strenuous activities. His body’s confounded by it all. He’s waiting for Hanzo to kick him out of bed, but when that doesn’t happen, he smirks and suggests he knows a few ways to keep warm. Hanzo indulges him.

Jesse can feel his exhaustion in every dried out, aching part of his body, but the moment Hanzo touches him, he forgets it all. Their next kiss tastes like ashes and whiskey, and it doesn’t take much convincing to get Hanzo to go again. They drink and smoke again when it’s over, eat some kind of soft French cheese on crackers. 

Hanzo says he’s sore, but they fuck again anyway. Jesse’s careful, slower, but they go until neither of them can move, until they’re both sticky with sweat and come, until the exhaustion reaches all the way to his bones. He’s tired but he can’t sleep. He’s never had this much sex in one night, and he thinks he should feel chafed or sore or something, shouldn’t be able to get it up any more, but he still does and it keeps him warm. It could take hours or minutes, and there’s no way to know. All Jesse knows is desire and the heat that fills his head and body as long as Hanzo lets him stay close.

* * *

He finally falls asleep when the sky outside is gray, pre-dawn, when he should be waking. He oversleeps his two-hour alarm; maybe it never goes off. Either way, it’s nearly noon when he wakes again. Hanzo is nowhere to be found.

Every muscle is satisfyingly sore. He moves lethargically as he pulls his clothes on. It’s been too long since he spent the night with someone like that. There was no talk of payment either; his assessment of the situation shifts and grows more flattering.

He almost hates that he has to leave. It might be nice to get Hanzo’s number, find out if he lives anywhere Jesse visits. Chances are slim, but it might be worth it for a repeat.

Packing is a haphazard affair. He’s hoping they’ll forgive the late checkout if he can get out before twelve o’clock hits. 

The concierge smiles apologetically as she explains that their policy is unbending. He can tell there’s no point arguing, and they’ve already got his chip on file. It’s a waste, but he’ll survive it.

Outside on the curb, he catches one of the bellhops smoking a cigarette. He’s got the weirdest smirk on his face; it makes Jesse’s skin crawl. As his gaze slides off the bellhop, the smirk seems to get wider, and in his periphery, it stretches ear-to-ear and keeps expanding. Jesse scrubs at his eyes then the back of his neck, and he might regret how late he stayed up, especially with the drive he has to make today.

He tosses the duffel onto the passenger side and shuts the truck’s door too hard. The engine gives a wheeze and a stutter, then nothing happens. When he tries again, the sound is weaker. 

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

It’s not going to work, but he tries it again anyway. Then he squeezes the steering wheel until it creaks between his hands. He’s not bad for an amateur mechanic, but when he checks under the hood, he can’t see a damn thing wrong.

The bellhop has been watching the whole affair, and he comes closer now. “Would you like a hand?” the bellhop asks. Jesse doesn’t like looking at him. Every time he tries to make eye contact, he catches his gaze slipping, not quite willing to hold his gaze. “Perhaps I could try to turn it on while you look?”

He has a hand on the door already while Jesse’s elbow-deep under the hood, and it makes Jesse twitch backward, pulse pounding for no good reason. “Think I’m gonna leave it to the professionals. Not much I can do here.” He shuts the hood with a smile that’s as apologetic as he can manage. The bellhop doesn’t seem offended, but Jesse’s heart refuses to stop racing until the man backs away from the vehicle. 

His cell reception is garbage out here, but the woman at the front desk lets him use the landline there to call the closest mechanic. It’s too short notice to get someone out here today, but the man on the other end of the line assures him they’ll try to pencil him in for tomorrow. With his shoddy reception, Jesse asks them to phone the front desk for him.

“Good thing I’m paid up through tomorrow, huh?” he asks when he’s off the phone. The concierge only smiles her pinched, polite smile.

* * *

On the way back to his room, he catches Hanzo in the hallway looking like he, at least, got a good night’s sleep. Jesse wants to resent it, but it’s hard to complain about the one bright spot in his shitty day. Hanzo gives him a wan smile. It’s not as awkward as it could be, but running into a one-night stand and realizing they didn’t simply disappear the next day is always weird.

“I thought you would be long gone by now,” Hanzo says. At least he’s honest about it.

“Truck won’t start.” Jesse thinks about it, wondering if it’s pushing his luck to try for a repeat performance. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for another day.” 

“Ah.” Hanzo looks flattered, but he’s guarded too.

“Wanna grab a drink?”

Jesse knew the answer before he asked, and he can see it now. Hanzo’s face contorts with an apology before he even speaks. “That is a bad idea.”

“How so? If you don’t mind humorin’ me.”

“We had a pleasant time, but I’m afraid most people do not enjoy my company the following day.” It’s a weird thing to say, and kind of depressing if Jesse’s being honest, but Hanzo doesn’t look sad. He only looks uncomfortable. It’s unfair that even when his lips press tightly together, he still looks kissable. 

Jesse doesn’t want to push. He’s gotten the hint. But he does want to make him smile — doesn’t want to leave it on such a grim note after the night they had. “Lucky me, it hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet. I still got time before I’m sick of you.” He puts on his cheekiest grin.

Hanzo’s laugh is surprised and it fades quickly, but at least it leaves a smile behind. “I have things I must do today. But… later, perhaps.” He looks like he’s chewing on some thought, then he sweeps in to press a kiss to Jesse’s cheek. It veers dangerously close to his mouth. “Take care of yourself.”

It’s a weird way to put it, but Hanzo’s sort of weird anyway.

* * *

It’s cold in Jesse’s room. He takes another shower in the old bathroom, listening to the pipes bang out their rhythm and wishing the water didn’t take a thousand years to heat beyond lukewarm. Eventually there’s steam curling through the bathroom, though the water never does get as hot as he really wants. 

On his way out, he checks the mirror. In the steam, his reflection’s eyes gleam brightly and his shadow on the wall is too dark, warping in his periphery. He blinks hard, rubs at his eyes, and it’s gone. 

His room feels even colder with wet hair clinging to his neck. Normally he doesn’t bother to complain about these things, but it’s bad enough that he puts in a call to the desk downstairs, and they promise to send someone up to check on it. In the meantime, he gets dressed and flops back on the bed, thumbing through his phone. The wifi here is terrible, doesn’t seem to stay connected, and his cell reception is as bad in his room as it was downstairs. Eventually he gives up and flips on the old television, looking for something halfway interesting to watch.

There’s a knock. The door swings open and shut on its own, but nobody’s there. Jesse wants to sit up to investigate, but his whole body refuses to respond, stiff and unmoving. 

He opens his mouth to speak, and no sound comes out. Something goes in, though. It feels like fingers, stuffed in his mouth and holding his tongue down, tasting like dirt and blood. He can feel the reverberation in his chest that says he should be making some kind of noise, but it gets stuck. It can’t escape.

The fingers are everywhere, not only in his mouth but pinning him down, gripping at his flesh, dirty nails in his skin. They’re filthy with desert dust, with swamp mud, with grave dirt for the luckiest of them — somehow he knows that for all, it’s whatever earth he buried them in. He’s wheezing, going lightheaded with it. He can’t move or talk or breathe.

It’s a nightmare, just his conscience rearing its head again. It’s nothing. He only needs to wake up. If he opens his eyes, they’ll go away. 

When he gets them open, there’s a face, bloated and gray, smelling like swamp rot. His chest heaves, then the face is gone.

He’s sitting up in the bed like he was never asleep. He doesn’t remember passing out or waking up, only flipping through the TV channels, then the hands, and now this, sitting straight and looking at the maintenance guy who just walked through the door. 

The guy looks at Jesse like walking in on a man hyperventilating his way out of a nightmare is only the eighth most remarkable thing he’s seen today. “You called about your heat?”

Jesse’s mouth still tastes like blood and dirt, and he hasn’t fully shaken off the memory of being grabbed all over. He manages to nod, though. The inspection doesn’t take long. The maintenance man gives the air conditioning unit a nudge with his boot, then it rattles and hums and wheezes out warm air and the smell of burnt dust.

“There you go. Sometimes these old units just need a little affection. Call us if it acts up again.”

Jesse nods through it, barely listening. When the man leaves again, it feels too strange to sit on the bed any longer. It feels silly, but he doesn’t want to risk another nightmare yet. Now that the heat’s going, he’s even sleepier.

His stomach grumbles. He hasn’t eaten since the night before. No wonder he’s having nightmares. With nowhere to go and no way to get there, his options are room service or the restaurant downstairs. He has a stroke of genius about the matter, too.

Hoping he comes off as charmingly persistent rather than pushy or desperate for company, he heads for Hanzo’s door. The guy’s given him some mixed signals, but he can’t be the only one thinking they had a good time last night. Nobody keeps you for another round if they’re not having fun.

Outside the door he hears muttering, Hanzo’s low voice engaged in some kind of conversation. There’s no making out what he says, but he sounds tense, maybe even angry. If there’s somebody in there with him, they’re not talking back; more likely, he’s on the phone.

Jesse hesitates, but the talking stops abruptly. He waits another moment so it’s not so obvious he’s been waiting in the hallway, not quite eavesdropping, then he knocks.

When Hanzo answers, he looks harried, and seeing Jesse doesn’t seem to make that pinched expression any better. Well, shit. “This a bad time? I can get outta your hair.”

Whatever had Hanzo in its grip, he shakes it off now. He seizes Jesse’s forearm, fingers digging in a hair too tightly before they relax. “No,” he says, smile loosening his face. “No, it is only my work. You’re not unwelcome.” His touch grows lighter, leaves goosebumps on Jesse’s arm. “Was there something you wanted?”

“Was gonna grab a late lunch. I’m hopin’ you’ll join me. My treat.” Hanzo pauses like Jesse’s done something to throw him off. Mixed signals again. “Doesn’t mean anything you don’t want it to. But I’m stuck here, the wifi’s terrible, and there’s nothin’ good on TV. I’d kill for some company.”

It’s tinged with nerves, the residual stress of his phone call, but Hanzo’s slow, flirtatious smile nearly mirrors Jesse’s own. “I suppose I can entertain you a while longer.”

Hanzo invites him in, preferring to eat in private rather than down at the hotel bar. There’s a small table in the room, and Jesse lets Hanzo tell him what to order, which is how he ends up with soup and salad instead of the porkchop he was eyeballing; Hanzo assures him it’s not worth the price. While they wait for their food, Jesse tries to come up with something to talk about that doesn’t suggest that he’s _too_ interested in getting personal. Hanzo’s been skittish enough as it is, and Jesse would rather keep it light. 

He wants to ask how Hanzo gets service out here, but that means admitting he overheard something. Eventually he lands on, “So you’re here for work?”

“Yes.”

“Stay in hotels a lot?”

“More time than I spend at home,” Hanzo says with a wry smile. “And you?”

“Yeah, on the road a lot.”

“What is it you do?”

“Private investigator.” It’s one of Jesse’s usual covers. Close enough to the truth that the lie comes easily, mysterious enough that most folks don’t know what the job entails. Hanzo might be one of those people. He only nods, and he doesn’t bother with more questions. Instead he rises and pours them both a drink, more of his expensive whiskey. Jesse doesn’t know what comes over him. He asks, “What would you have done if I didn’t take it?”

Hanzo is unflappable even in the face of Jesse’s smirk. “Drink it myself, eventually. You seemed to enjoy it enough last night.”

“Enjoyed a lot of things about last night.”

Hanzo glances over the rim of his glass. “If you are angling for more, I have to warn you I am not in the right state to repeat everything.”

It’s a roundabout way of putting it, which makes Jesse chuckle. “You sore, baby?” He can’t help the smugness that creeps in. He leans slowly across the table, and he watches Hanzo’s lips part on a short, stuttered breath. “I can be gentle. Take it nice and slow. Bet you’d open right back up for me.” He knows what his voice does, and Hanzo’s not immune; his eyes burn and there’s color rising in his cheeks. Jesse grins and sits back in his seat with a shrug. “Or I could blow you. I’m not that picky if the company’s right.”

Hanzo releases a hushed laugh, and it seems to shake him from some daze. The food arrives shortly after, and they talk quietly, but mostly they eat. It’s the most time Jesse’s spent with another person in a while, and there’s something nice about simply occupying the same space as someone else — especially one with a handsome face, and one who seems uninterested in digging too deep.

He’s sure they’re having a pleasant enough time, but Hanzo checks his watch more than once. “You tryin’ to see if it’s been twenty-four hours yet?”

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“I’d believe anything you tell me, sweetheart, long as you smile when you say it.” He laughs at the expression on Hanzo’s face, like he’s trying to decide whether to indulge Jesse’s bullshit. “So has it been?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Explains why I’m not sick of you. Better take advantage while you can.”

Hanzo takes a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes narrowed and glittering over the glass, then he leans back in his chair like it’s a challenge. Jesse’s under the table and between his thighs in an instant, mouth eager and still slick with whiskey. When it’s done, Hanzo lays him out on the bed and returns the favor. His mouth works like it’s made for this, and he lets Jesse fuck his throat before he comes on Hanzo’s face.

It’s a pretty sight, and Jesse makes sure to commit it to memory so he’s got something to take with him on the road. Then Hanzo announces he’s going to wash up. Jesse _should_ take that as his cue, but the bed is soft and his body feels sluggish, and Hanzo hasn’t dismissed him, so he gives himself a few minutes.

Pipes creak the same here as in Jesse’s room, shrieking and rattling as Hanzo starts a shower. He must have left the door cracked, because steam billows out. Jesse wonders at that; it takes _his_ shower a million years to heat up, but it’s practically instantaneous here. The steam spills through the room, distorting all in its path, roiling in a way that makes shadows move like animals across the floor. It fills his lungs, humid and thick in his mouth.

Someone leaves the bathroom, but it isn’t Hanzo. It’s too tall, too slim. It moves jerkily through the haze, and Jesse isn’t fast enough to shy away. It’s on him in an instant, pinning him to the bed. The mist parts to reveal hair so blonde it’s white. She would be pretty, almost. She makes him think of Ashe, except her mouth is a wide red gash. She’s moaning wordlessly deep in her throat, but when her lips part only blood comes out, spilling onto his face from the stump where her tongue should be.

He can hear his own voice in his head, dragged up through the years. _Got a tongue that could cut a man, Ashe. Best be careful nobody does somethin’ about it one day._

He hasn’t thought about her in years, but with the blood dripping hot on his skin and the steam filling his lungs, her face is the only one he can remember. He thrashes in her grip, clawing at the hand on his throat, and she won’t let go.

Then she’s gone, and his eyes are open again. Hanzo’s hand rests on his shoulder, and a droplet of water slides lazily out of his hairline, over the curve of his cheekbone then his jaw, to drip on Jesse’s skin. He sits up quickly, and he doesn’t mean to dislodge Hanzo so harshly.

“Sorry, I’m…” Jesse coughs, relieved that he can, and he scrubs his hands over his face. They pass through the remaining wetness. He has to examine them, marveling that the liquid is perfectly clear. “Must’ve passed out.” He doesn’t elaborate further; he’s sure he looks crazy enough already. 

Instead he watches Hanzo, like that will convince him of what’s real. Hanzo goes about his business as if Jesse isn’t there, dressing himself before he stops to check the mirror. He preens a little, prods at his hair, but mostly he stares. 

Jesse snorts. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’re just as fine as you were yesterday.”

Hanzo glances back like he’s surprised to find Jesse is still here. Time to get going then; he doesn’t want to wear out his welcome. Hanzo doesn’t talk much as Jesse makes excuses to leave. He wonders if he could have stayed longer if the nightmare didn’t make him look half wild.

* * *

He can’t sleep. Every time he tries, there’s another face from his past come back to haunt him. He doesn’t know what it is about this place or time that brings them to his dreams, but he’s sick of it already.

After one particularly odious nightmare, he tries texting Ashe. He doesn’t want to talk to her, but he needs to shake the nagging superstition that the dreams are trying to tell him something. All he gets is an error message — failure to deliver.

It’s probably for the best. She wouldn’t want to hear from him anyway. Not these days.

In his dreams he sees familiar faces, and worse, those he no longer remembers. He knows unerringly what he’s done to each and every one of them, but their faces are formless, names lost to time, if he ever knew them. 

When he wakes again, there’s an old Blackwatch recruit at the foot of his bed. Melnik, he thinks. Her first mission was also her last. _Cannon fodder,_ he called her then, a stupid boy’s stupid way of hiding from pain and fear. _Better her than me._

She stares, eyes gleaming like an animal’s in the dark. When he scrubs a hand over his face, she’s gone.

It’s midnight when he gives up on sleeping. He splashes water over his face in the sink, and he scowls into the mirror. He looks as tired as he feels, and he imagines movement in the shadows behind his reflection, gone as soon as he blinks.

He thinks about knocking on Hanzo’s door again. His head is full of ghosts, all the victims and collateral damage. He could use the distraction. 

He makes it as far as the hallway. There’s a pair of people loitering there, watching him with the strangest expressions. They look like the things in his dreams. They look hungry. 

It’s this place. This time of night. Looking for Reyes has him paranoid, and the sleeplessness isn’t helping.

He thinks about his reflection in the mirror. Thinks about talking to Hanzo. Wonders if he’s going to seem clingy, desperate for something more than some relief to help him sleep. 

In the end, he turns away, back to his room and his nightmares.

[ ](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/760300695072538644/763499514521714708/ZINE_DND_SEV.jpg)

Art by [Severeni](https://twitter.com/severenitm)


	2. Chapter 2

The mechanic doesn’t come. The concierge says, with her tight, apologetic smile, that it will be another day. She loans him an ancient phonebook to page through, but the next closest shop is another town away, and they never pick up. For the inconvenience, Jesse’s next night is comped. 

Every hour he stays is another hour wasted in his hunt for Reyes. He’s going to lose the ground he’s gained. The trail’s going to go cold.

He lingers in the lobby, slouched in an armchair with his chin propped on one hand, waiting for other guests. He has vague plans of hitching a ride with somebody, but the checkout time comes and goes, and nobody passes through but that creepy bellhop.

The concierge keeps sending flat, disapproving looks his way. She looks like Angela from certain angles, if Angela were cold and pinched and fifteen years older. Maybe cold and pinched is how Angie would look these days, if she saw him. It’s been long enough that maybe all the good memories are buried beneath the dust-covered reminder that he left her to rot with the rest of Overwatch.

He rubs a hand across his brow, eyes squeezing shut, and he decides he’s had enough of the lobby. He plods back to the second floor. 

It’s close enough to lunchtime that he thinks about going to see Hanzo again. He lingers in the hallway, with a pair of hungry eyes on him, those people who might be junkies or insomniacs shuffling their way through the daylight hours. From outside Hanzo’s door, Jesse can hear him speaking in a sharp, tight voice. It sounds like an argument. It’s one-sided again, no answering voice to respond to Hanzo’s ranting.

When Hanzo answers the knock, he’s definitely alone.

“You get reception out here?” Jesse asks.

Hanzo stares like he’s confused. Then he asks, in a tired drawl, “What do you want, Jesse?”

“I’m, uh, stuck another day, and I thought maybe you’d wanna spend some time together.”

“That is not a good idea.”

The bitterness in Hanzo’s voice is off-putting. Jesse’s worn out his welcome. Of course. “Alright, well.” He feels his mouth twitch, the smile more a defense mechanism than anything he’s putting effort into. “If you change your mind or find you’re bored or… hell, you know what I’m offerin’. Just let me know.”

“I won’t,” Hanzo says brusquely. It stings more than Jesse thinks it should, and Hanzo must know it, because he looks suddenly guilty. His voice is softer, almost hushed when he says, “It was… very pleasant. But I have many things to do. Don’t do this again.”

Jesse knows a polite  _ fuck off  _ when he hears one. He gives Hanzo another quick, reflexive smile, then he goes back to his room, unsure how else to occupy his time. 

* * *

He orders room service. Another soup, another wilted salad, because he can still hear Hanzo telling him the meat’s no good, and there’s no good reason to listen, but there’s no good reason not to, either. He turns the TV on just for the company, and he resists the bone deep urge to slam the door in the bellhop’s face once his food’s been delivered. 

Dust motes sparkle in the afternoon light coming through the window. It’s broad daylight. Somehow that doesn’t stop a man from emerging from shadows too thin to have hidden him.

He’s caked in dust, sluggish black blood oozing from the bullet hole between his eyes. He sits at the small table.

Jesse’s hand trembles and tightens around the fork. Like the things in his nightmares, this man looks familiar, but not in any way Jesse can place. He recognizes that bullet hole, though, can guess what caliber did it. Peacekeeper’s two paces away, if he can get to her. 

The man smiles, and something slithers out of his dirt-filled mouth. It plops onto the table and scuttles toward the plate. Jesse curses and surges to his feet, chair clattering behind him. More insects creep from his open mouth, accompanied by a dry, wheezing laugh.

Jesse lunges for his gun, and the man doesn’t follow, but the bugs do, swarming around his feet, itching as they scramble up his legs. Jesse looks away from the man once on reflex, one hand sweeping away a cockroach. When he looks up, the man is gone. So are the bugs.

He stands, breathing shallow and rapid, staring at the place where the man once was. He shakes his clothing, draws up his pant leg to see, but there are no more bugs. His skin’s still crawling with them, though. He scans the room, checks the bathroom, pokes his head out into the hall, but there’s nobody there. Somehow he’s less surprised than he should be. 

Lunch is ruined. He’s not going to be able to touch that salad again. 

His grip shifts and tightens on Peacekeeper. “Fuck this,” he mutters. 

It takes minutes to toss all his things into his bag. He can ditch the truck. He can walk. It won’t be his first night in the woods alone. 

He’ll hitchhike his way to the closest town, hotwire or hijack a car there. He can be back on Reyes’ trail by nightfall if he’s efficient, and if he’s lucky. 

The elevator gives a rusty, ominous creak when he steps on, and the light flickers off the moment he’s in motion. In the darkness, he feels someone else’s presence, the brush of a hand. There’s a low, mournful sound just behind him. He doesn’t look. He doesn’t move. He ignores the brush of fingers along his neck.

The elevator dings, the light comes on, and Jesse’s alone.

He knows the elevator moved. He felt the swoop in his stomach as the cart dropped. But when he steps off, it’s the same faded mauve carpet. A quick glance reveals the hallway back to his room.

He takes the stairs at the end of the hallway instead. Down one flight, then he opens the door. It’s the first floor, tiled flooring stretching past the front desk toward the huge twin doors. He crosses the lobby, determined, and he does not make eye contact with the concierge, but he can feel her watching. She’s smiling like she always does, thin and polite, a customer service smile pasted on for the sake of a paycheck. 

He shoves open one of the doors, and he sees the sun, and he steps across the threshold.

His feet land on the old mauve carpet. He’s back on the second floor.

It doesn’t make any sense. He takes the stairs back down to the lobby, opens the main door, and winds up back where he started. This time the thing that isn’t Ashe is waiting in the hallway, with her dead-eyed stare and bloody smirk. He scowls at her. Then he takes the stairs again, and again, and again, until he is panting and out of breath. 

Sometimes when he enters the second floor hallway, it’s not Ashe. There’s a young man with a burnt face. There’s a brown-skinned woman with one eye. There’s a black-haired woman and a blond old man both cut to shreds by explosive shrapnel. They all remind him of someone else, folks he let down in the lives he’s tried to shed, people he’s hunted and killed recently. People who he’s betrayed or hurt or failed. 

They stare as he grows more frantic, hunger in their hollow eyes. Sometimes their laughter follows him back down the stairs. 

He’s sweating, panting, when it’s finally Hanzo he sees in the hall. Hanzo who looks whole and healthy, who only looks like himself. There’s something familiar about him, but it’s a distant tickle, not like the other people. The thing Hanzo most reminds Jesse of is this hotel and the first twenty-four hours in it. 

Jesse stops running. Frazzled, he grabs Hanzo by the arm. “What the hell is this place?”

Hanzo stares back, then he pries Jesse’s grip carefully off himself. Most folks wouldn’t be able to move Jesse without his permission, but Hanzo’s even stronger than he looks. The muscle isn’t just for show. Hanzo’s face is icy. “Excuse me?”

“You’re the only person here who doesn’t look fuckin’... weird.” Hanzo’s earlier words echo in his head: telling Jesse to take care of himself, his assertion that nobody likes him the morning after, his insistence that Jesse get lost. “You know somethin’, don’t you?”

Hanzo’s looking at him like Jesse is something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “I know many things, but not why you are raving at me right now.”

Something violent surges inside, a ferocious rage that seems to come out of nowhere. Jesse backs away quickly, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “Don’t lie to me, Hanzo. This place is crazy, but you. You’re fine.” 

The set of Hanzo’s jaw is stubborn. “I’m sorry,” he says stiffly. “I cannot help you.”

Jesse sucks in a sharp breath of air. “But you know. You know somethin’.” The realization hits him even as the words form: “You  _ did  _ somethin’. What did you do to me?”

“In English, I believe it’s called a blowjob.”

Jesse can hear how unhinged his own laugh sounds, bubbling up through the panic and the inexplicable rage. “Fuck you. What did you  _ do?” _

“I cannot  _ help you,”  _ Hanzo says again, more slowly and through gritted teeth.

Jesse feels the vicious surge again, the fury that threatens to overwhelm him. It doesn’t even feel like his own; it feels alien, like something setting up camp deep inside him. It claws at his throat, makes his hands shake, and he takes several more steps backward. Hanzo uses the opportunity to slip back into his room. The lock slides into place with an echoing finality.

* * *

When he drops his bags off in his room again and heads to the bar, nothing stops him this time. It’s empty save for the bartender, and nobody puts up a fuss when he lights up. The smoke hangs thick in the room, hovering near the ceiling. The whole place is fragrant with it, his current smoke mingling with the stale remnants of smokers past. It should be gross, but it’s the first time since he arrived here that something only brings up older, more pleasant memories.

He orders a whiskey neat. The bartender looks too much like someone back in Deadlock. He’s got a deep, red scar down his cheek, and Jesse doesn’t look too closely to see what other gruesome shit might be there. The bartender doesn’t speak to him, which is probably for the best. All Jesse wants is to sit alone for a while and drink his whiskey and not think about this place or Hanzo. 

Both are difficult. It’s hard not to try to puzzle it out. His mind is too restless to leave it alone, but he suspects it’s the sort of problem he can’t solve while sitting in the middle of it. 

Everyone here looks like someone he’s met. Betrayed, hurt, killed, failed. The hotel won’t let him leave. He wonders if it’s a cosmic punishment. He wonders if he’s in hell.

If that’s the case, what does that make Hanzo? 

After two drinks, he checks out the ancient jukebox in the corner, and he laughs at the song selection. Wryly, he pushes the button to play “Hotel California,” and he wonders if it’s supposed to give him some kind of clues. 

_ You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. _ He hums along, and he snorts at that line in particular, and then he drinks until he doesn’t have to think about much at all.

* * *

He wakes in his room. If he dreamed any of those crazy dreams, they were too fogged by alcohol for him to remember. That’s good. It’s nice. 

There’s Ashe in the corner again, wet red mouth spread wide in some mockery of a grin. He flicks her off on his way to the bathroom. His head spins with the movement, but she doesn’t follow him. He wonders if she’s real. Who she is. She can’t be the real Ashe; the real Ashe isn’t dead, far as he knows. But she might be a real something.

His reflection is as ragged as ever, maybe more so. There are bags under his eyes, and beneath the scraggly beard his cheeks are more sunken than he’s seen them in a long time. The road’s been rough to him, and so have the past few days. He wants a shower, but he doesn’t want the cold and he doesn’t want to be naked if one of those things comes for him again, so he settles for splashing water over his face. 

His reflection stares back at him, all its motions a half step behind Jesse’s own. It’s disorienting, and somehow he just knows there’s one of those... whatever they are in the mirror too. “Fuck you,” he mutters, and he’s scowling but the face in the mirror smiles back, lips stretching to reveal row upon row of sharp teeth.

Jesse curses again and stumbles back, and he leaves the bathroom as quickly as he can. 

* * *

He makes a few more token efforts before he stops trying to get outside. It’s pointless. He’ll always end up back on the second floor, facing the ghouls.

He thinks they won’t actually kill him. Oh, they’ll fuck with him. Sometimes they hurt him. He’s tasted his own blood, choked on things that aren’t there, suffocated, writhed in the agony of fire, bullets, shrapnel in his skin. They stare at him all the time, constant reminders of the things he’s done. 

Sometimes they talk. The one who isn’t Ana visits him one night. This one hurts more than the others. He always liked Ana. 

“Habibi,” she says like she never did when she was alive. She touches his face, her fingers cool on his skin. If she turns just right, he doesn’t have to see the hole where her eye should be. She almost looks the way she used to. He knows he should back away, get his gun, but she pushes the hair gently from his face, and he can’t move. 

“Captain?” he asks hoarsely. He sounds like a dumb, scared kid, the one who used to follow her around, desperate for her approval, for her to look his way with half the affection she’s showing now.

“Why didn’t you come?” 

His throat clenches. “They… We looked. I tried. You were gone.”

“I was alone for so long.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You stopped looking. You gave up.” She leans in with a smile, like she’s going to tell him she smuggled extra cookies from the break room. “You’re the reason they never found me.”

Her fingers dig into the bone around his eye socket, nails gouging into the flesh there. He jerks back, and she follows, slender fingers turned to talons. He shields his face and can’t bring himself to hurt her, to fight back. 

Her spittle drips, stinging on his skin like acid, and only once he his cowering, backed into a corner, does she leave off. He always thought her laugh was sexy before, but now it causes something to curdle in his stomach. He holds his hands over his face until he is sure she’s gone.

* * *

Days go by, he is certain, but he no longer experiences time in a way that has meaning. He has nightmares. He wakes up. He drinks. The ghouls come to fuck with him, to blame him for their deaths or their misery, then he goes to sleep again. The sleep is never restful; he is always tired.

The only hint he has that time is truly passing is his reflection. He knows it lies sometimes. He knows there’s something in the mirror. But other times he thinks it is true, and he looks like shit. His beard is a mess and the circles under his eyes appear to have taken up permanent residence. His face is gaunt.

Not that he starves. The smiling bellhop brings him food. He still thinks about the meal he ate with Hanzo and he doesn’t order meat, an instinctive fear in his gut. But it feels like it is never quite enough to sate him. He is always hungry, as hungry as the ghouls that circle him.

He still sees Hanzo sometimes. Hanzo has never left. Hanzo doesn’t look gaunt or ragged or poorly cared for. Hanzo is still sharp and handsome, the same walking wet dream he was the night Jesse arrived. He doesn’t change, and he doesn’t seem to suffer. He doesn’t seem to see the ghouls that haunt the hallway. But he sees Jesse, and when he does, his face goes dark and unreadable, and he returns to his room before Jesse can speak to him.

Jesse tries talking back to one of the ghouls — the one that isn’t Jack, the one with an enormous hole in his gut, metal and concrete buried in his skin. “Why me and not him?”

Jack’s as humorless as he ever was. “Maybe he’s not a fuckup.”

He might have a point, but if that’s the case, then why is Hanzo here at all? Jesse may not know how much time has passed, but he knows it  _ has _ , and Hanzo hasn’t left. He remembers hearing Hanzo talking behind his door, and he’s sure now that it wasn’t just some phone call. Hanzo stared into the mirror too. 

“Does he have visitors I can’t see?”

“No. He’s better than you.”

Jesse figures there’s not much point asking Jack questions after that. Whether they’re lies or the full truth, he’s not getting any answer but the ones that get under his skin.

It grows, slowly, into resentment. Jesse watches Hanzo when he can. He wonders if he looks as hungry as the ghouls. 

“What do I have to do to leave?” he asks Dr. Liao.

She tsks, pulling a face that highlights the broken glass embedded in her skin. “You already know.” The next time he sees her, she is in the hallway, and she touches his cheek and guides him to look at Hanzo again.

Hanzo is still beautiful. Healthy. Clean. Jesse wants him. Jesse envies him. The resentment crests, that alien rage inside him, and Jesse wants to take it all away, until Hanzo is as miserable as he is, or until Hanzo looks like one of the ghouls. 

Hanzo glances his way, and his expression grows grim. Jesse’s hands shake with hunger and adrenaline, and he makes himself return to his room. 

“Coward,” Dr. Liao says coolly. 

“Shut up.”

She laughs her musical laugh. Glass tinkles when she smiles. “You always were a sucker for a pretty face,” she teases. Ashe gurgles and grunts in the corner; that’s a laugh too, bubbling up through the blood in her throat. “He could tell. You knew that, didn’t you?” Jesse scowls at his hands.

She almost sounds like she used to, back when she would explain her experiments to him.  _ Crafting an artificial intelligence necessarily demands that we interrogate our understanding of human intelligence,  _ she told him once.  _ What do you think makes us different from them?  _ she asked, like she really wanted to know what he thought, like he was more than just her bodyguard, like he had more going for him than good aim.

She takes that tone now when she says, “You should ask yourself why he did it.”

“It’s a lonely place.”

“Is that all?” She looks disappointed in him. “Stupid boy,” she says. It almost sounds fond. Almost. “There are rules.”

“Everything’s got rules.”

“What are the rules here? You broke them and you never knew. Stupid, stupid. Shoot your load first, ask questions later. He knew you would.”

She sounds like Dr. Liao, but when she was alive, she was only ever kind and professional. This version is crude, cruel, and he balks at it. She puts a hand on Jesse’s thigh. Glass crunches when she drops to her knees in front of him. He twitches away, snaps his knees together, and she laughs again, shards glinting from her tongue. 

“He knows the rules,” she insists.

* * *

Jesse’s reflection looks more or less normal right now. It’s good, because he wants to shave. Of course his razor disappeared. They replaced it with a straight razor. It’s almost funny. 

_ You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. _ He hums the song to himself while he shaves his neck carefully, carves clean lines around the beard he wants to keep. He wonders if that’s how they get more ghouls. If that’s who they really are: souls like Jesse who finally gave in. He wonders if the smile he sees is his own or if it belongs to the thing in the mirror.

When he is finished, he trims the beard and the ends of his hair with the scissors. Over his shoulder in his reflection, Ana watches, one-eyed, and he thinks he wouldn’t have to see her if he just drove the scissors home. He takes a steadying breath and finishes his trim, and he sets the scissors down by the sink. 

The shower heats up for once. It’s like they know he has made up his mind. This is his reward: a hot shower, a clean face, a haircut, all mostly unimpeded by the ghouls. 

He looks good, he thinks. Skinnier than he’s used to these days, but handsome enough. When he’s finished brushing his teeth, he smiles at himself. The shark teeth smile back.

He lingers in the hallway, leaned up against the wall, and the ghouls keep their distance. They still look hungry, but there’s an anticipation there too. 

When Hanzo finally emerges from his room, he looks instantly suspicious, and he turns to go back inside. “Wait,” Jesse says, reaching out to put a careful hand on his arm. “I just wanna talk.” Hanzo looks surprised but he doesn’t back away. Jesse sounds a lot saner than he has in a while now, and it must appeal. “It seems to me it’s just the two of us here. You’re not goin’ anywhere, are you?” That’s the wrong move; Hanzo frowns and begins to turn again. “Hey, no, I just mean. This place, it’s kinda fucked up. I just want someone to talk to.”

“That is not a good idea.”

Jesse tries his most charming smile. “C’mon, sweetheart, what else is there to do? You seem to have it real good, but I bet you’re bored half to death.” Hanzo might be softening, and Jesse pushes the advantage. “Got a lot of ways to entertain you, if you let me.” 

There it is: Hanzo lets out a quiet laugh. It’s jumpy, not any less skeptical, but he’s intrigued. His head tilts, the fan of his lashes dark and inviting. “Entertain me, how?”

Jesse moves closer, and Hanzo stands his ground. “Got a few ideas. Love to pay you back for that warm welcome you gave me.” 

Hanzo smirks, and his thick fingers tangle in the front of Jesse’s shirt. He caves quickly enough then, and the thing thrumming under Jesse’s skin riots with anticipation, victory so close he can taste it. The door opens behind Hanzo, and he pulls Jesse through. 

When he draws Jesse toward him, it’s rougher this time. There’s a bite behind his kiss, sharp incisors catching and scraping the chapped skin of Jesse’s lips. As hungry as Jesse is, as hungry as the ghouls. Easy for it. 

It’s warmer in here. Hanzo’s bed is softer too. Everything in here is better than out there. Better than Jesse’s had it. 

_ Rules,  _ Dr. Liao said. There are rules here and Hanzo knows them. Jesse snarls into his mouth. 

He shoves Hanzo onto the mattress, pinning him beneath his weight. Hanzo’s thigh slides along his hip, and it’s almost enough to make Jesse second guess. He could do this instead. Bury his problems, lose himself in the heat of Hanzo’s body. His cock flexes in his jeans, and his back grows cold again, frosty tendrils creeping along in his mind. 

The bloody gurgle of Ashe’s laugh scrapes up his spine, but it cuts short when he seizes Hanzo’s jaw, gripped again by the knowledge of what he has to do. He eases his hand up Hanzo’s thigh, then behind his own back, pulling the gun free where it’s tucked into his belt. 

There’s a sudden iron grip on his wrist. Hanzo’s thighs squeeze, and Jesse lands on his back, gun trembling in numb fingers held high above his head. He feels the bite of something sharp at his throat. 

Hanzo’s eyes are wild and dark. “Did you think it would be so easy?” he snarls, pretty mouth a vicious, angry twist. 

Jesse laughs, a desperate wheeze, and he thinks he can feel the blade dig in. “Worth a shot,” he says bitterly. Hanzo’s eyes narrow but that doesn’t mean he’s not distracted, leaning too close; he snatches at Hanzo’s wrist with the metal hand, adrenaline lending him the strength to leverage the knife away. His forehead follows with a sharp snap. 

Blood spurts from Hanzo’s nose. Jesse uses his shock to try to scramble free, gripping Peacekeeper tight, but Hanzo knocks his arm wide and keeps it that way. There’s a knee in Jesse’s abdomen, but he shoves the knife hand away desperately. He knew already Hanzo was strong; knowing still didn’t prepare him for Hanzo to be formidable. Panic turns his limbs cold as he realizes he’s in over his head. 

“You did this,” he accuses, because talking is his only weapon until he can bring the gun to bear. “You knew something, you had to.”

“You know  _ nothing,”  _ Hanzo growls right back. 

Jesse spits at him, and he wrenches his arm free, gets the gun between them and lodges the muzzle between Hanzo’s third and fourth rib. Hanzo’s knife presses hard against his neck, blood tickling as it trickles over his skin. It’s not a stand-off Jesse thinks he can win, but he wonders if that matters. 

“If you die here, you will never leave,” Hanzo says as if he read Jesse’s mind. “You  _ will _ die, even if you take me with you. I will ensure it.” The blade slips along his skin, Hanzo adjusting his grip, and Jesse fights the urge to swallow. The hesitation must be visible, because Hanzo bears down, closer, and he hisses, “It is what they want.”

Jesse’s not sure he heard it. His heart pounds in his ears, breaths ragged in his throat. But the words cut through the haze of rage and panic. “How do you know that?”

“I have been here a long time.” 

Jesse still wants to pull the trigger. He considers it, and the thing that stops him isn’t a conscience. It’s something else. He imagines Hanzo with a hole in his chest, climbing into his bed at night to whisper in his ear, and he can’t take another ghoul. He eases back. 

The blade at his throat matches his own motions, cautiously drawing back until they’re both standing down, matching breaths coming quick and shallow. Hanzo’s eyes still have that wildness, but Jesse hears the knife drop, muffled in the bedding. 

Then Hanzo lashes out, quick as a snake. A flash of pain explodes behind Jesse’s eyes, and everything goes dark. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter specifically for references to intimate partner violence (not between McHanzo) and self-harm.

Jesse wakes with a headache throbbing between his temples. Someone is muttering nearby, a low growl that focuses his attention despite the pain. It sounds like gibberish until his brain begins to come online; it’s another language.

Japanese, he thinks blearily. He knows a phrase here and there. Must be Hanzo’s voice that’s scraping over his raw nerves.

It’s cold again, and Jesse’s shoulders hurt. They’re stiff and aching where they aren’t numb, arms yanked high above his head. Handcuffs rattle as he tries to move. The bed’s headboard is hard behind him, straining his neck into an awkward position.

When he opens his eyes, it’s not Hanzo he sees first. It’s a Japanese woman in the corner, older by thirty years at least. There’s foam at the corners of her mouth, her lips and skin tinged the faint blue Jesse associates with asphyxiation. She’s no one he knows, but she smiles at him until Hanzo stops talking, then she rasps something in her own language.

Hanzo snaps back, then he comes to study Jesse. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temples, his eyes wider, alert to the point of paranoia. “You tried to kill me,” he says grimly as he snatches the rag from Jesse’s mouth.

“No shit. Why am I still alive?”

“Hanzo always does his duty,” says the old woman. “He is the good son.” When Hanzo flinches, she smiles wide and satisfied, showing off her crumbling teeth.

“You are alive because I spared you,” Hanzo says.

“So she can kill me instead?”

“If it comes to it.”

“No, no,” she says, but she creeps closer. “Not this one. I only want a taste.”

“Stay back,” Hanzo commands, exhaustion bleeding through his tension. His eyes narrow on Jesse. “Why did you do it?”

“What you deserve,” he snarls.

Hanzo looks unimpressed. He leans over Jesse, but not too close, not now. His nose is swollen and bruised, a hint of dried blood still left beneath one nostril. It’s annoying that it doesn’t detract much from his looks. Jesse wishes he had broken it, but swelling aside, it’s still sitting much too straight for that.

“What I deserve,” Hanzo repeats blandly. He grasps Jesse by the jaw and runs a wet rag over his face. “I suppose you came to this conclusion on your own.” That stops Jesse short. He presses his lips together, feels the rag catch in the crusted blood in his beard. “Why do I deserve to die?”

Jesse can only scowl. “You’re the reason I’m here, ain’t you?”

“Yes and no.”

“Dutiful Hanzo,” the old woman croons.

Hanzo doesn’t look at her this time.  _ “You  _ are the reason you are here.  _ You  _ took what was offered.  _ You  _ indulged.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Your vices.” Hanzo’s mouth twists. “How many times did you fuck me? You could not stop at only once, could you? How much have you drank here?”

“Booze and sex?” Jesse laughs. “That’s all it takes?”

“No. That is how they get their hooks in. But there is more, isn’t there?”

Jesse fights not to squirm beneath him, remembering what it was like to fuck him. “You liked it.”

“Yes. That is not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“You needed me to. But not for my sake. For your  _ vanity.  _ Or am I wrong?” He wants to protest, but Hanzo  _ isn’t  _ entirely wrong. He thinks about the way Hanzo felt beneath him, about cajoling him into more and more and more, about how much of it was ego and greed and loneliness. He’d like to say the hotel had something to do with it, but he isn’t certain enough of that. “You are here because they decided you belong here.”

_ “Why?”  _ he demands, although the creeping along his spine hints he knows the answer for himself.

“That is between you and your conscience.”

“Hanzo would know,” says a voice in the corner. It’s familiar, clawing at a memory, but like everything else in this place, it isn’t exact. Hanzo stiffens and does not turn, eyes suddenly fixed at a point beyond Jesse’s ear. A muscle tics in his jaw. The old woman was one thing; this is something else. 

“You are not supposed to be here,” Hanzo says without looking. “We had a deal.”

_ “This  _ was not part of it.” Jesse watches the flutter of Hanzo’s eyelashes, the tension in his face, before he cranes his neck to see the newcomer. Lurking in the shadows is a man with eyes like Hanzo’s. His mouth would be the same pretty shape if it weren’t for the dense, shiny scars spiderwebbing his face, pulling his lips into a perpetual sneer. “Funny. Hanzo always does as he’s told,” the man sing-songs. “That’s why he will not tell you everything.”

Hanzo still won’t turn. He stares past Jesse, teeth bared in a grimace, unmoving. The man speaks again in Japanese, something that isn’t for Jesse’s sake. He emerges from his corner, crawling on muscular arms because his legs don’t move. His organs trail along the floor, spilling from a wide gash. Jesse doesn’t know much of the language, but he knows the word  _ aniki. _

“Holy shit,” Jesse breathes. The ghoul’s eyes narrow, menacing, flashing red the way Jesse knows them, and he places a finger over his lips.  _ Shh.  _ Jesse has a better idea. “Genji.” Hanzo’s eyes snap to his face, manic, practically feral. “He’s not dead,” Jesse says. 

“Liar,” the ghoul and Hanzo snarl in unison.

“I watched him die,” Hanzo adds. He looks furious, like he’s reconsidering his stance on keeping Jesse alive.

“Maybe you should’ve looked closer,” Jesse says, trying to keep the rage from his own voice. He’s desperate, worried what these things might do if Hanzo leaves him tied up. “We took him in. Scooped him up half-dead and brought him back.” The thing that isn’t Genji moves too quickly for someone with only half his limbs, in quick, jerky motions that bring him to the bedside. Jesse twitches as far out of his reach as he’s able. “Overwatch saved him. Overwatch and Doctor Angela Ziegler. You heard of her? She’s famous. Got that nano-tech—”

“Which of them put you up to this?” Hanzo’s hand is at his throat, fingers digging into the hinge of his jaw. He still smells good, smells like his soap to cover the sweat and the copper tang of blood, and Jesse tries to focus on that over the whiff of rot coming off the ghouls. 

“Nobody.  _ Nobody.  _ I used to work for Overwatch. We worked together. Me and Genji and a few others. Angie put him in a suit, gave him workin’ legs again. You remember that scandal? Blackwatch in Italy?”

“I have never heard of such a thing.”

The old woman’s clawed fingers wrap around his ankle, and he twitches again. “I— it was pretty big news, not long before all of Overwatch got brought down. Genji was there. He was with  _ me.” _

Hanzo’s grip slackens as he stares, no longer enraged but  _ confused.  _ “What do you mean, Overwatch was brought down?”

“Back in ’71? The explosion? The Petras Act? Not big on international news, are you?” Jesse’s panic is slowly transforming into something else. Hanzo’s face is fearful, the implication more unnerving than either of the ghouls. 

“What are you…”

“Don’t know how you could miss it. Felt like I couldn’t go anywhere without seein’ the footage. It was  _ everywhere,  _ only thing anybody could talk about.” Hanzo’s eyes have gone distant, hollow and haunted, and despite everything, some part of Jesse manages to find a way to say it gently: “Do you… you don’t remember that?”

Hanzo has gone pale. Even the ghouls are looking at him, not Jesse. Genji smiles viciously. Hanzo’s mouth moves like he’s repeating everything Jesse said, like he thinks Jesse’s gone completely fucking crazy, or maybe like he’s questioning his own sanity. The whole thing makes Jesse  _ feel  _ sort of crazy.

Maybe it’s amnesia, selective or otherwise. Maybe staying in this place too long sucks away your memories until there’s nothing left but you and the ghouls.

But Hanzo is Genji’s older brother, he knows that much. He should be pushing forty. Instead he looks like he might be thirty, if that. A decade younger than Jesse instead of his peer. 

Jesse licks his dried out lips, eyes tracking nervously over Hanzo’s stricken face. He doesn’t know why his voice is so hushed when he asks, “How old are you?”

“Jesse loves his stories. Quite the imagination,” Ana says coolly from the doorway. 

Jack grins beside her, laugh lines stretching around the shrapnel in his face. “He lied to me about his parents.”

Dr. Liao sits at the foot of the bed. “He promised to keep me safe. Funny to think I believed him.” Ashe gurgles something too. Useless as the sounds are, Jesse knows what she  _ would  _ say, if she could:  _ He promised he’d stay forever, promised we were family, then he ran the first chance he got. _

Hanzo refuses to look at any of them, leaning instead over Jesse with his mouth flattened into a grim line. “Hanzo,” Jesse asks, “What year do you think it is?”

The old woman tuts. “He is a liar. A murderer. You think he is here by mistake? You will not be the first he has killed, nor the last.”

“You said you’ve been here a long time. How long, Hanzo?” Jesse can hear it in his voice, pleading now.

“Shut up,” Hanzo growls. 

“Breaking the rules, brother? For him, when you never would for me?”

The handcuffs snap open, and Hanzo backs away quickly. “Get out.  _ All of you.  _ Get. Out.”

* * *

It’s been hours. Well, maybe. Jesse lets out a cynical huff at the thought. Maybe there’s no way of knowing. Maybe time works differently here. 

He never noticed before how thin the wall between their rooms is. Now he knows. 

His headache is prolonged by the sound of Hanzo’s tantrum. Thumping, glass shattering, shouting. Rage or grief, it’s hard to say. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s neither. Maybe he’s truly lost it, unaware himself what his ranting is about. 

“Well done,” Jack taunts. Jesse looks away from him, rubbing at his aching wrist. There’s a red band around it, the indentation from the handcuffs. “Couldn’t kill him, so you drove him crazy instead.” 

“I only asked a question.” 

“And what a stupid question it was.”

Jesse only grunts. Outside the window, the trees are as green as when he arrived. He wonders if that will change. Wonders if he’ll watch the leaves turn brown and fall from the branches, wonders if he’ll watch them return. He digs a knife from his duffel and scratches a tally mark into the wall; he should have done it sooner, but some stubborn part of him held onto the thought that he might leave. He tries to think back, to count how many days he’s been here, but that slips away too easily. He can account for four with confidence. The rest are a haze of alcohol and lost time. 

Something crashes against the other side of the wall hard enough to shake it, then finally Hanzo grows quiet. Jesse wonders what he’s doing now. Did he wear himself out? Did he leave the room? 

“Should I check on him?” he asks Jack. 

“Why? It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Jesse doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. “You wanted him as fucked up as you. You wanted him miserable.”

“I should check on him.”

Jack laughs. “Sure. Offer to let him suck your dick as a consolation prize.” 

“You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?” 

It makes him hesitate, though. It seems to him that he should do the opposite when these nasty things give him advice. Not like Hanzo gives a shit what happens to him. Best he can tell, Hanzo is part of why Jesse’s stuck here — complicit, at best, if not entirely at fault. 

Jesse doesn’t care. Or he shouldn’t. Hanzo seduced him — fucked him then fucked him over. 

If Jesse’s hunch is right, Hanzo’s been here a long, long time. Long enough to warp a man’s mind. He could have done so much worse. Hanzo didn’t kill him when he had the chance. 

He thinks about the straight razor sitting on his bathroom counter, left there by someone in the hotel. Something inside him grows cold.

He’s on his feet in an instant, wrenching open his door to pound on Hanzo’s. Whatever Hanzo has done, Jesse doesn’t want this on his conscience. Whatever he’s done, Hanzo’s the only one who might give him answers. Whatever he’s done, he’s the only other real person here. More than anything, Jesse doesn’t want to be alone with the ghouls. 

When there’s no answer, he tries the handle, rattling the door on its hinges in his efforts to open it. There are ghouls in the hallway watching, laughing, but he no longer cares how crazy he looks. 

He doesn’t stop until he hears a muffled sound inside. Then he goes still, trying to listen carefully over the sound of his heaving breaths. “Hanzo?” he asks, unable to form more words than that.

“Go away,” is the answer. 

Jesse lets out a shuddering breath, forehead resting on the door. Hanzo doesn’t speak again, but it’s enough to know he’s still in there. 

* * *

Jesse still makes a token effort to leave, sometimes. He heads to the bar, orders a drink or five, then he’ll stumble casually through the lobby, past the concierge, that woman who never moves, never changes, always smiling tight and polite. The front doors open to fresh air, to sunlight or rain or velvet darkness. He steps outside, and he’s back on the second floor.

He is diligent about the tally on the wall, but it seems to grow faster than he thinks it should. He doesn’t know if they’re fucking with him or if he really added them all himself. The trees outside are still green.

Sometimes he knocks on Hanzo’s door. Sometimes he still wants to kill him, the rage inside him bubbling until it boils over. Mostly he wants to hear another person speak. Hanzo tells him to fuck off, and it’s enough for another day.

He checks out a few of the poker games. The bellhop plays, and so do the ghouls, and at first, none of the bets mean anything. It’s a game for the sake of a game, and it grows boring quickly with no stakes attached. When he points it out, they tell him what he can bet with — his trigger finger, his left eye, his prosthetic arm. He decides those stakes are too high, and they go back to playing just to play.

He spends most of his time drinking, welcomes the comforting haze the alcohol brings. It takes the edge off the hunger, distracts him from the things in the dark. 

There are twenty-two scratch marks on the wall the day the bellhop arrives with a feast. They know Jesse’s preferences by now: there’s a bottle of bourbon to go with his food, and the meat is salmon. Fish, something that doesn’t set his imagination wild wondering what else it could be. 

“What’s this?” he asks. The bellhop only smiles his unnerving smile and hands Jesse an invitation to the evening’s poker game. 

His room is warm for once. The lamp light somehow seems more inviting. The water gets hot and steamy. Even his reflection looks more like his old self. When he exits, his clothes are laid out for him, clean and pressed. The smell of detergent is a comfort he forgot he could miss. 

Best of all, no ghouls come to pester him. He can’t remember the last time he was left alone for so long. 

It doesn’t begin to sink in until he’s downstairs, sliding into a chair at the poker table. Dr. Liao sits beside him in a cocktail dress she would never have worn, her skin as smooth as a baby’s. She looks real. She looks  _ alive. _

Other ghouls look alive too. They’re on their best behavior. A couple he has never seen before sits with them. It’s a white man and woman, Dennis and Charlotte, fresh from the road and just in for a night. Her hazel eyes keep flicking to Jesse with more interest than a married woman should have; his are sizing Jesse up like he’s competition. 

“You understand?” Dr. Liao asks, a whisper in his ear as she slides a drink into his hand. 

Jesse smiles as pleasantly as he knows how, and he throws the first game. He gives his best  _ well, shucks  _ shrug and forfeits his chips. Not like it matters. The chips aren’t really his. He buys in for another hand. He’s got a pair of jacks and another shows up in the flop. He folds anyway and watches the stranger’s glee. 

“Looks like it ain’t my night,” Jesse says with a chuckle. Dr. Liao’s fingers are vicious beneath the table, digging into his thigh like knives. “Don’t worry so much, sweetheart,” he says, barely able to keep the bite from his voice. 

He wins the next hand, recoups some of his losses. The competitive fire in Dennis’ eyes grows. The nails dug into Jesse’s thigh let up, and they don’t return when he throws the following round. The ghouls get it now: a man on a losing streak is one thing, but this one thinks he has a chance. Jesse loses enough to let his ego puff up, wins enough to keep him from walking away with his earnings. 

“Maybe we should get to bed, baby,” Charlotte says eventually. Her husband has a veil of sweat along his brow. He’s down three hands now; Jesse’s been winning more often now that he has him on the hook. 

“She’s right, it’s gettin’ late,” Jesse agrees. 

“It’s a Friday night!” 

Jesse fiddles with his chips like he really has to think about it. “Fair point.” 

He thinks he gets it now. It was never about the sex with Hanzo. Never about the alcohol. The vice isn’t the problem. There’s nothing wrong with sex or alcohol inherently. It’s the indulgence, or maybe the pain the indulgence masks. This man’s insecurities, his need to prove himself, the thinly-veiled anger and the sweat under his collar at the thought that Jesse might be richer than him, smarter than him,  _ better  _ than him. 

Charlotte is lonely. She’s still eyeballing Jesse, and it only gets worse the more she drinks. Maybe it’s vengeance. Maybe Dennis cheated on her before. He seems like the type, keeps shooting glances at Dr. Liao like that’s another thing he’s got to compete with Jesse for. He can have her, Jesse thinks with a smirk.

They play until Dennis has nothing else to bet with, until Jesse’s chips are towering by his side. The shadows are darker now, reaching out like they could touch the couple, especially Dennis. 

Jesse wonders what he’s done, who he is. Is he a killer too? Or just some run of the mill asshole?

When the game is over, the ghouls let Jesse leave in peace. They don’t follow him, they don’t pester. He has another drink at the bar alone in blissful silence. 

Upstairs in the hall, Charlotte’s got a bucket in her hand, but the ice machine isn’t what she’s looking for. 

“Hey there, cowboy,” she purrs. 

“You lost?” he asks. 

“Looking for you.” It’s awkward. Her eyes are wet like she’s been holding back tears, glossy from the alcohol. He gets the sense she’s never done something like this before. 

The game was easy. It was  _ fun,  _ if he’s honest with himself. He’s always had a twisted sense of justice, and poking holes in the egos of insecure men comes naturally. Like drawn to like, maybe; he knows his own kind. 

This feels different. “Need help gettin’ back to your room?”

She leans in too closely, touches his chest. “I thought maybe you could show me yours.” 

There’s something cold at his back, and she’s warm, inviting. He thinks about the hot shower, the peaceful silence, all the nice things he’s had this evening. He leans in with a smile, brushes the brown hair past her ear to press his mouth close. He can feel her skin against his lips as he whispers, “Run.” 

“What?” She draws back, startled, and he clasps his fingers around her neck, holding her close while she trembles like a rabbit caught in a trap. 

“Get out. Tonight. Leave him if you gotta, but get out of this place.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She stumbles backward. Of all the fucked up things in this place, she’s afraid of  _ him.  _ He almost laughs. 

The cold’s coming back, and the lights are dimming. The shadows on the wall grow longer. He wonders if she sees the same, or if this is only what he gets for refusing to play along. She scrambles away from him, terrified by whatever she sees. 

So be it. He’ll be the boogeyman. 

He stalks toward her. “Get  _ out,”  _ he snaps, for once welcoming that alien rage. “Run.” When she hesitates, shocked into stillness, he shouts, an unearthly sound that aches in his throat. She darts away with a strangled sob, and he follows with heavy, plodding steps, long strides that keep him right at her heels. He draws himself up, makes himself as big as he can, and he follows her to the staircase, laughing as she scrambles away. 

He doesn’t follow any further. 

In the morning he finds her at the foot of his bed, pale in the face. She looks like she’s been crying. The marks on her throat are in the shape of hands much bigger than her own. 

“Run,” she mocks, wheezing past the crushed windpipe. 

“I tried.” Jesse hates the sound of his own voice. Meek, pleading. He hates the hot sting in his eyes, hates the tears that threaten but refuse to come. 

She weeps enough for the both of them, and it’s somehow worse than any of the other ghouls’ taunting.

* * *

He’s put two more tally marks on the wall, knocked twice on Hanzo’s door, when the husband finds him in the hallway. 

_ “You,”  _ Dennis snarls. His blond hair is matted, his eyes wide. Jesse wonders if he looked this unhinged this fast. “What did you do to my wife?”

“Me?” Jesse sneers. “What’d  _ you  _ do to your wife?”

The man stumbles. He’s drunk, it seems. Jesse won’t judge him for that part. “I didn’t— no, I—”

“What happened?” Jesse pushes because he needs to know for himself. 

“No, I blacked out, I— I would never—”

“Yeah? ’Cause last I saw her, she was on her way back to you. In one piece.” 

She watches over her husband’s shoulder, a satisfied smile on her face. “He chased me. I was so scared. He was going to hurt me.” It’s a clever move, Jesse thinks distantly; it’s hard to say who she’s talking about. “He put his hands around my neck, and I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t breathe.”

“These things lie, man,” Jesse says tiredly. “I didn’t lay a hand on her.” 

“It wasn’t me, I would never.” The man’s eyes are wild now, fearful and furious at once.  _ “You  _ hurt her. You did all of this!”

He lunges at Jesse then. His punch hurts, but it’ll be a bruise later, nothing more. Jesse’s taken a lot worse. He hits back hard enough to send Dennis reeling, then he shoves him away for good measure. 

The guy comes right back, limbs flailing like he’s never been in a fight in his life. There’s nothing intimidating about it, except that he’s brought a damn knife out this time. It’s long and sharp, looks like he got it from the kitchen. Jesse wonders if one of the ghouls gave it to him. 

“C’mon,” Jesse grumbles. Dennis is clumsy, but Jesse still backs up. Clumsy with a blade is still dangerous when Jesse’s unarmed. Metal screeches when Jesse blocks a slash with his prosthetic arm. The man lunges again, and Jesse’s back hits the wall. He snatches at Dennis’ knife hand, but he keeps pushing back, and Jesse can feel the rage rising inside him. 

This man doesn’t deserve his mercy. The last time Jesse showed mercy, this is the guy who ruined it. And now he’s blaming  _ Jesse  _ for all that, wants him dead for it, and he’s got a knife.

Jesse snarls and turns them, one arm a hard bar across Dennis’ throat. He slams the fist with the knife against the wall. When he doesn’t drop it, Jesse squeezes, metal crushing his fingers. Dennis shouts in pain, whole body spasming, until Jesse wrenches the knife free and turns it on him. 

“Please,” he begs. “Please, please, I didn’t— I won’t—”

“Say it. It was you.”

“It was me, I’m sorry, please…”

The rage feels like tendrils of fire inside his skull, creeping over everything, burning it up in its wake, and Jesse snarls, plunges the knife home. The man sobs, choking, and the sound is worse than his pleading, worse than anything. Jesse twists and yanks upward until the noises finally stop. 

When he backs away, Dennis’ body slumps and slides down the wall. The rage slips away, and he’s left empty, staring at the body, then at his hands. It’s not his first rodeo, but it feels wrong, all of it, no amount of desperation or pragmatism able to explain away the satisfaction it brought. 

His eyes burn again, but he can’t move. There’s a sound, a creaking. He looks up to find Hanzo watching from his doorway. “He would have come back,” Hanzo says. “More deranged every time, until either you or he ended it.” 

Jesse nods, numb. Hanzo hesitantly steps out from the doorframe, and Jesse follows his lead, allows himself to be drawn into Hanzo’s room, into his bed. If Hanzo wanted to kill him, it would be a perfect time. Jesse’s head is all wrong, he’s weak, he’s in shock. Instead he lies on his back, and Hanzo sits beside him in the dark.

“A car left in the middle of the night,” Hanzo offers after a moment. “It is hard to say what is real here, but I heard you in the hall. And I saw a car leave.” His head turns, and even in the dark Jesse can tell Hanzo’s looking at him. “She will only remember her fear, but I know what you did.”

Jesse laughs bitterly. “So I killed a man over nothin’ instead.”

“Not nothing. Self-defense.”

“Didn’t feel like self-defense.” 

“He would have kept coming. They always do.” Hanzo pauses, a thoughtful tilt of his head. “They usually do. You have resisted.”

Jesse snorts. He knows he’s going to lose it if he stays here. It’s a funny thing to be aware of the slow decay of his own mind, to feel it as it’s happening, and funnier still to think Hanzo is impressed because it could be worse. He could be Dennis. 

Cynicism aside, he’s curious, and he can recognize the kindness Hanzo seems to be offering. “Is that why you didn’t kill me?” 

“Something like that.”

“You gonna kill me now?”

“You repaid that act of mercy. And you offered it to another. I won’t kill you unless you come after me again.”

Hanzo makes himself comfortable, lying with his head on Jesse’s shoulder. He’s vulnerable; Jesse could try it now. What’s one more murder, anyway? In for a penny, in for a pound. Jesse’s chest hitches on a laugh, and Hanzo’s hand comes to rest there, over his beating heart. 

It’s Hanzo’s fault he’s here, but Jesse thinks he understands now. What Hanzo did. Why he did it. The rewards were obvious, and the poker game was so, so easy. It would be easier still to say it was his only option, but Jesse made a choice. He even enjoyed it. It’s the consequences he can’t stand. 

He did the same thing Hanzo did, trapped another person here for some small reprieve, and it didn’t even take a month to get him to that point. There were nudges from whatever eerie power is in this place, suggestions to guide his path, but he’s the one who chose. Worse, nothing he did was something he wouldn’t do out there in the real world, given the right circumstances. Maybe Hanzo’s right that he deserves to be here.

He doesn’t know how long they lie there. He doubts the ghouls will let them have peace for long; it seems they’ve both bent the rules now. He wants to ask how many times Hanzo’s done it, if it was always sex or if it was different every time; he wants to know if there’s anything about him that’s special. 

He shouldn’t care.  _ Vanity,  _ Hanzo called it. Ego, more like. Maybe that’s all it is. 

There are other things he can ask, things that might tell him more about how this place works, but in the end, he returns to the same questions as before. Hanzo is silent for a long while. 

“Twenty sixty-seven,” Hanzo eventually whispers in the darkness. “The year. It is 2067.”

“Got it backwards. We’re in ’76, last I checked.”

Something happens to Hanzo’s body: a shudder, barely suppressed. “You’re a liar,” he says fiercely. 

He can’t kill Hanzo over any of it; he doesn’t even want to punish him. Jesse understands now. He’s done the same thing. He understands the hand over his heart too; as long as it’s beating, it’s evidence that someone else here is alive. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” He links their fingers carefully together, and he rubs his mouth along Hanzo’s thick hair, and he stares at the ceiling, wondering if he’ll be allowed to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The art for this fic is by Sev, who is amaaaaazing and was so much fun to work with. Please go [shower them with love on Twitter](https://twitter.com/SevereniTM/status/1314657559400378368?s=20).


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